


Clean White Coat

by berlynn_wohl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Asexual Character, Asexual!Sherlock, Dark, Kink Meme, M/M, Medical Kink, Rape/Non-con References, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-31
Updated: 2011-08-31
Packaged: 2017-10-26 09:31:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If John really wanted to live the dream of his fellow villains, he wouldn’t be satisfied with just killing Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clean White Coat

A/N: This is a fill for [a prompt on the kinkmeme](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/5950.html?thread=26108734#t26108734). Anon asked for Sherlock thinking about how John would kill him if he were evil…but it turns into a sexual fantasy. (Click link for full prompt.)  
   
   
   
   
Even after a long night of crime-fighting, John couldn’t shake his habit of waking at six AM. It didn’t matter if he’d gone to bed at ten PM or three AM, it was up and alert at six, without fail. So here he was, at six-thirty, reading the paper and munching on toast, knowing he’d need a nap around two, and pondering if he should plan his day around that.  
   
Sherlock came bounding down the stairs at seven. He, on the other hand, would _not_ be needing an afternoon nap; he simply ran on four hours’ sleep out of every twenty-four. (He’d been trying for years to get it down to three, without success.) The reason he came _bounding_ down the stairs, and not stepping or shuffling, was excitement.  
   
“Today’s the big day!” he said as he continued that incessant bounding, now into the kitchen.  
   
“I thought yesterday was the big day,” John said around a mouthful of toast. “You know, the day we foiled the biggest bank heist in the history of Europe? Or was the day before yesterday the big day? When I got clotheslined by a man on a motorbike wearing a Margaret Thatcher mask.”  
   
While John said this, Sherlock was peering into the refrigerator, then panicking, then opening the freezer, then checking the refrigerator again. “Where is it?” He whipped around, and the tie of his dressing gown hit John in the face. “Oh, bloody buggering-- What the hell are these doing on the worktop?” He pointed accusingly at three beakers, one half-full of red liquid, the second blue, the third also blue.  
   
“They’re not supposed to be there?” was all John could offer.  
   
“It was an experiment in comparative corrosivity,” Sherlock snarled. “But the most important factor was that the liquids maintain a temperature of less than three degrees Celsius at all times. _That’s why they were in the refrigerator_. That is, in fact, why they were to remain in the refrigerator for precisely twenty-six days. Instead, I find them on the worktop, and God knows how long they’ve been there! What have I told you, John, about leaving my work where you find it!” And then, to himself, he muttered, “Twenty-six days, gone!”  
   
“I didn’t touch your precious beakers.” John brushed his hands free of crumbs. “So don’t bite _my_ head off.”  
   
“Who did it, then? Mrs Hudson knows better. Just tell me the truth, John, did you sabotage my experiment?”  
   
“Erm, yes, if I were _evil_ , I might have done. But, I’m not, so, I didn’t.” John took the remainder of the paper and moved out to the sitting room. He’d seen enough of these strops to know which were serious and real, and which were Sherlock being upset about inconsequential inconveniences.  
   
All that data lost, at a cost of twenty-six days. Sherlock would have to order all of his supplies again, and they weren’t cheap, _and_ they put him on watch lists, not all of them Mycroft’s. He collapsed into his chair, laptop in hand, and began typing in the relevant URL. John, sat opposite him, sighed at Sherlock over his newspaper, and a phrase resurfaced in Sherlock’s mind. _If I were evil_.  
   
Wouldn’t Sherlock look a fool if he did discover one day that John was evil. The world would laugh at the gullible detective who thought he knew it all, and then allowed this unassuming man to infiltrate his home and life, first compromising his ability to solve crimes by giving him a useless emotional attachment, and then sabotaging his experiments, one by one.  
   
And sooner or later, John would decide that those things would not be enough, especially if Sherlock learned to adapt to John’s presence and efforts. One day, it would be time to eliminate Sherlock. And that would be simple enough. John was a doctor. ( _Or claimed he was_.) Doctors were experts in the simplest, quietest ways to kill people. All Sherlock would have to do was step on an errant nail in an alley, and he’d need a tetanus shot. If he squared off against an opponent with a knife who was HIV-positive, he’d need blood draws for months afterward. As Sherlock’s doctor, John would have opportunities to poison Sherlock, quickly or slowly, that would be the envy of every scoundrel in London. He need only lure Sherlock into his consulting room, brandishing a lethal injection in the guise of a vaccination booster.  
   
However, Sherlock mused, if John really wanted to live the dream of his fellow criminals, he wouldn’t be satisfied with killing Sherlock. He’d want to _humiliate_ him. Other masterminds might orchestrate a grand public event or elaborate anatomical mutilation to accomplish this, but Sherlock imagined John was a meat-and-potatoes sort of villain; he would probably just go for a good old-fashioned rape. That could easily be accomplished in the privacy of the consulting room. But when? He probably wasn’t twisted enough to do it after Sherlock had expired. But Sherlock would fight him if he tried to do it before. So, sedative first, then. Once again, easily accomplished, and then John would have a warm body to play with. And afterwards, the lethal substance of his choice.  
   
The problem with a sedative, though, was that it would compromise Sherlock’s awareness of the situation, and thus reduce the humiliation he felt, which, Sherlock had decided by this point, was essential. Instead of a sedative, John, wise as he was, would opt for a paralytic. That way, Sherlock would be aware of every excruciating second of the assault, but be utterly incapable of resisting. _Then_ the lethal injection.  
   
Then again, John knew Sherlock very well by now, as all criminal masterminds must know their enemies. He knew Sherlock was pragmatic, and unbothered by the possessiveness and protectiveness that most people felt for their own bodies. If Sherlock was put in a situation where he knew he would not be able to resist being interfered with sexually, he would probably just accept it. No use feeling embarrassment over a violation that you can’t thwart of a body you’re not particularly attached to in the first place.  
   
Sherlock began to imagine something that he almost never bothered to imagine: a sexual scenario involving himself. He pictured himself sitting on the exam table and naively accepting the offer of John’s needle, a paralytic disguised as an inoculation. (Vecuronium bromide would probably be John’s choice; lasts twenty-five to forty minutes, with fewer unpleasant side effects than other skeletal muscle relaxants.) He would slump, and John would catch him and gently guide him down so he was on his back. Half-blinded by the fluorescent light above, which he would not be able to shut out by blinking, he would then feel John undoing his trousers and yanking them down. For better access, John would then turn Sherlock over, so he was essentially bent over the table, then lower his own zip. Sherlock imagined being able to hear the sound of it, while his eyes saw only the paper wrapped round the exam table. After some perfunctory lubrication was applied, John would proceed to violate Sherlock’s body, perhaps first with his fingers, perhaps not. Sherlock would listen helplessly to John’s grunts of effort and pleasure, would feel John’s thighs smacking his own thighs and buttocks. The paper on the table would crinkle in time with those slaps. Perhaps John would say some filthy things, to really drive home the humiliation Sherlock was supposed to feel. It was also possible that John wouldn’t turn him over first; he might decide that the reduced ease of access to Sherlock’s body would be more than made up for by the satisfaction gleaned from Sherlock seeing John’s face as he pumped away. Now Sherlock pictured John looming over him, his tidy shirt and tie and clean white coat made incongruous by his obscene, rhythmic thrusting, his face contorted in a rictus of pleasure. He would occasionally glance down to make sure Sherlock was being subjected to every gruesome visual accompaniment to the mental and physical agony. And then, John would spend, right inside Sherlock’s body, or perhaps on it; Sherlock did not know which option was culturally regarded as more humiliating. Sherlock started to think about which he would prefer.  
   
And then he shuddered with the realization: a paralytic was just the thing. It would solve the problem that he and John had, though John was too embarrassed to admit that there was a problem, and Sherlock considered it insufficiently relevant to his own well-being to be called a “problem” in the first place. John was not evil, of course. Sherlock would have determined that by now, if he were. But he _was_ of a mind to involve himself with Sherlock sexually, were Sherlock to ever express a similar inclination. Alas (for John), Sherlock was not interested in sexual pursuits, and knew he could never satisfy John’s needs. Sherlock simply could not betray his own intellectual principles by conjuring enthusiasm he didn’t have for activities he didn’t care for. (Or as some people called this practice, “Love.”) Sex wouldn’t humiliate Sherlock, it would humiliate _John_. John would not be flattered to discover that no amount of effort would produce an erotic response; he’d have to shag Sherlock at the edge of a cliff if he wanted Sherlock to push back.  
   
Which is where the vecuronium bromide came in. Sherlock reasoned that the drug would allow him and John to have sex: John could enjoy Sherlock’s body, but Sherlock, being completely paralyzed for the duration, would be under no obligation to perform. The net result would be Sherlock’s satisfaction at having finally been able to provide John everything he needed from another human being, and John’s increased emotional attachment to Sherlock. No more meddling paramours keeping his John away from him, and no need for Sherlock to writhe about like an idiot and fake cries of ecstasy in order to accomplish it.  
   
Basically, it was a wonder drug.  
   
“Sherlock. _Sherlock_. Are you alright?”  
   
John’s voice cut through his thought process, and he snapped to attention.  
   
“Of course I’m alright. Is there a problem?”  
   
“Well, you fell into that chair like you were dropped out of the _Enola Gay_ , but then you just stared blankly at me for ten seconds.”  
   
“I was just thinking. Did you not know that I do that occasionally?”  
   
John flicked the paper up in front of his face and turned the page. “It was a bit creepy, is all.”  
   
“Oh, read your paper, why don’t you. It’s because of you I’ve got to find a place to buy some vecuronium bromide.”  
   
“You what? I thought your experiment was about corrosives.”  
   
“Mmm,” said Sherlock, as he tapped at the keyboard.


End file.
